


Trompe l’oeil

by kerning



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 17:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerning/pseuds/kerning
Summary: Dots of color swirl around the dance floor, bathing Inigo in a sweat of exertion, of joy, himself only another body pressed against nameless strangers. Strobe lights flash over the crowd, frozen blips stop-motion in strange shapes. Neon blue, acid green. Here, Inigo is anonymous. Unremarkable in every way. With one exception: that gaze piercing a hole through his entire being.





	Trompe l’oeil

                Dots of color swirl around the dance floor, bathing Inigo in a sweat of exertion, of joy, himself only another body pressed against nameless strangers. Strobe lights flash over the crowd, frozen blips stop-motion in strange shapes. Neon blue, acid green. Here, Inigo is anonymous. Unremarkable in every way. With one exception: that gaze piercing a hole through his entire being.

                Leather jacket stretched over broad shoulders. Dark hair. He’s clandestine about staring, even with sunglasses—indoors— as if unsure whether to commit to looking back, knees parallel and back to the bar. The perfect approximation of transience. Yet he remains when one song segues into another, beat high energy. A high soprano with a love for repetitive lyrics chimes in, distorted by auto-tune. He doesn’t like this song anyway. Bouncing once on the balls of his feet, Inigo throws his admirer a cheery salute. Though he grants Inigo an unreadable expression the imperceptible nod seals his fate. He weaves through people until he reaches the bar, blocking the barstool next to him yet not taking it. Just in case.

                “Hey there.” Inigo lost any smooth introduction in the cotton of his mouth, nearly chewing on his tongue for how his nerves spike as the man takes an extended sip of his drink.

                “You staying or going?” Even with the din of the club that is a voice that could get him to drop to his knees if only he would ever ask. Inigo takes up the seat like it was a command regardless. As it is, he is content to appreciate the small bob of his throat as he drains the glass.

                “Care for another?” Inigo gestures to the empty tumbler.

                It seems ages, these pauses before he speaks, but it’s a little inconvenience if he gets to linger in such fine company. “It come with you?”

                Oh.

                This he could work with. He tilts his head a bit, deciding on coy. “Depends on what you order.”

                The bartender returns with a water and two fingers of top-shelf whiskey, because of course it is, this time settling around a fat ice cube. Inigo sticks around anyway, opening the bottled water.

                “Thanks,” he trails off, waiting before Inigo picks up on it. “Inigo.” With his glass raised in mock toast, it’s not particularly seductive but a simple pleasure to hear and receive his name in exchange. He mouths the syllables.

                “So, Gerome...“ Drumming his fingers against the bar top, Inigo decides he’d quite like to have a chance to say it more. “Why whiskey, that a favourite or what?”

                No blame on the heated burn of a shot taken, its effect worn off; there’s an icy prickle of self-consciousness and already he’s scrambling within the recesses of his mind. Something risqué threatens to trip off the tip of his tongue before Gerome gives a huff of amusement.

                “You could say that.” Gerome shifts, for the first time, away from him and ducks his head, running his thumb over the glass’ edge. “Can I be honest?”

                Though unexpected, he nods anyway.

                “It’s the first time I've been to this club and it’s too loud to savor the damn thing.” Gerome confesses this truth into a shallow amber pool, missing entirely the soft look gracing Inigo’s features. “If you go home with anyone at all, he should consider himself profoundly lucky.” Gerome clears his throat, regaining that casual posture.

                “Ah, well. For what it’s worth I’m glad you’re here,” Inigo washes down a bit of giddiness alongside guilt, biting at his lip to suppress a smile. He leans in, squeezing his bicep once before getting up so Gerome can follow his lead. “Maybe not to your preference, and it’s no quiet booth or tabled nook,” Inigo calls over his shoulder,  “But sometimes it’s worth it to take the stairs.”

                They find an empty couch in the lounge upstairs and Inigo can nearly feel the wave of relief washing over Gerome as he sinks into it. Lights of the dance floor slightly less bright, the people here tend to linger among corners. It becomes easy to sit closer.

                “You have something— let me?” Gerome swipes at a smear of mystery glitter down his arm. The condensation on his fingers leave goosebumps in their wake. Scrubbing his palm against his jeans, Gerome makes no complaint, balancing his emptying glass on his knee, the ice tilting, glittering as he stretches, arm splaying over the back of the couch so if Inigo rests against the cushions,  it would curl around him. Small talk is shared in whispers and Inigo decides he’s a quick read, the drawl, all deliberating on the right words to say. Charming in that way. No harm in tipping his hand a bit.

                So like searchlights promising greater excitement Inigo gives up on subtlety entirely. He takes in the barest glimpse of a heavy silver watch. “Ah, I know what time it is.” He taps at his own wrist. “For us to dance.”

                His pleasant expression falls away to doubt immediately. “I couldn’t… I can’t.”

                “Why not? You’ve watched me well enough.”

                He scoffs. “Alright, you asked for it.”

                Yes. Yes I did. He wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis and Gerome shakes his head and laughs. And Inigo is warmed by how he possesses the kind of laughter that leaves him immediately pleased in turn. Like he’s earned this. As they make their way down the steps, expectation lands squarely in his gut, which death drops when Gerome stands like he’s hit an invisible wall at the floor’s edge.

                Even so, Inigo crosses that boundary to join the crowd and calls to him with an outstretched hand. “Planning on making me wait?”

                “You’ll be disappointed.” He weaves in between bodies.

                “With you…”  Inigo gives him an obvious onceover, closer still and catches the notes of his cologne, all smoky brass of a vinyl record playing, an embrace, slow dancing in a dimly lit room. If there was anything he could have, imagination free, it would be this. Then and there he takes his hand, the one previously grafted to a glass. “Unlikely.”

                He is the lucky one here.

                One song ebbs into another, bass thudding through him like a second heartbeat. Inigo keeps his movement simple, Gerome mimicking him. It’s an effort on his part and though he means it not unkindly, Inigo laughs, apologizing to the downturn of his scowling mouth.

                “I’m no charity case.” Gerome’s hold at his waist loosens. “I told you to keep your hopes low.”

                “Alright, Mr. Honesty. One and two, keep up with me.” Under the light, Gerome’s lenses fail to hide how his eyes rove his body.

                Somehow he has the nerve to blush as Inigo slips off his glasses, tucking them into Gerome’s jacket pocket.

                “You are such a brat.” Gerome says with such a reluctant smile it makes his own broader.

                “Move those feet.” Inigo keeps his giggles firmly locked behind his teeth this time, and as the music shifts he rolls his hips, folding into Gerome’s arms to grind against him, back to front. “Perhaps you learn best through osmosis.” It’s a rhythm Gerome fares better at maintaining, though he grumbles something unheard. Mystery never settled well but his urgings only spur fingers into his hips in response. Not to be mistaken. So he relinquishes to the solid wall of his body, eyes half-lidded so all the world becomes gauzy stardust and silhouettes; Gerome’s warmth, his scent, the way his hands wander, smallest point where fingertips meet skin at its center. Gerome leans in, low words grazing the shell of his ear.

                “Let me take care of you…”

                Nearly a kiss to the thin skin of his neck, Gerome’s voice is all promise, ghosting over full soft consonants and though they are words he doesn’t understand, Inigo sighs. “Mmm, what does that mean?”

                Gerome steps back, slightest tug at Inigo’s earring quick enough that it seemed imaginary. "I'll show you if you'd let me."

                “Yeah?” Inigo pretends to consider, leaning into his space because damn does he miss it already. “Then let’s get out of here.”

                Once outside, the streets are collecting an ugly mix of melting snow and dirty slush at its edges. Gerome is a half-step ahead of Inigo, who shivers with a wish to be more impulsive, to lead him into the nearby alley, mouth hot and full stroking him down to the base with his tongue, knees of his jeans drawn darker against damp concrete, and Inigo shivers again but not from cold as Gerome’s jacket settles over his shoulders.

                He means what he says.

                “Too familiar.” Lilting and teasing, Inigo elbows him gently in the side, but if he’s allowed this indulgence, he may as well take his own, so he darts in for a quick kiss. His lips prickle with the rough of stubble as he nods to the sleek black car at its metered spot.

                “Now who is too familiar.” Gerome tosses him the keys.

                “Still you.” The key ring jangles as he catches it in one hand.

                “Hmph.” Gerome rolls his eyes, sinking into the passenger seat.

                The passing streetlamps skim Gerome’s profile, his hair a red that complements the interior. Inigo worries at his bottom lip, fiddling with the console as he drives. He gives in at last and lays his palm against Gerome’s knee angled towards him, gap between his thighs widening with the stretch of the road. An effort to resist, he stills and only moves to press the button to open the garage.

                The echoing slam of a pair of car doors is like vertigo, they meet each other in the middle. Messy kisses line his jaw, Inigo angling for a real one in time. All force, and weight. A struggle to open the door. Gerome leads him through the house and Inigo gets a glimpse of a picture frame. Dark hair, bright lifejackets.

                “Someone has a type.”

                “Uh-huh.” Gerome, taking the steps two at a time, doesn’t bother to look.

                “I mean I have dark hair too.” They stop at the landing, Inigo nearly bumping into him.

                “Shut up.”

                “Make me, daddy.” He’s pinned to the stair rail and Gerome lifts then hauls him toward the bedroom. “Don’t drop me.”

                “I would never.”

                “Good. Because I like you, maybe.”

                Gerome kisses him again. “Maybe I like you too.”

                He drops him squarely on the mattress. The impact steals a breath from his lungs.

                “Ah, lies. I really am delicate, you brute.” As the mattress dips with Gerome’s weight, Inigo shrugs out of the jacket only to be pushed backwards atop it with a soft grunt.

                “Huh. I never noticed.” His mouth tastes faintly of whiskey, hint of a smile on its corners. “Oh most precious of rose petals.”

                “Gerome.” He wrinkles his nose before losing himself to a bout of snickering. “What the fuck?”

                “Is that not a thing now?” His face is rosy, eyes alight with mirth as he throws the jacket over an armchair. “And here I thought you could take it.”

                “I could take plenty if you were giving me anything.”

                Hovering over him, his brows reach for his hairline. “Fair but untrue. You couldn’t handle shit.” Hearing him swear, Inigo squirms as he rocks their hips together, tinder to kindling the fire in his belly. “I’ll be sure to take my time. Since you’re so fragile.”

                It takes no small measure of him to not whine aloud and instead, reaching out for his forearm to guide him lower, Inigo presses into his hands, Gerome snatching the sound from his lips before it meets open air. He doesn’t have to be quiet. Not now.

                In short order, Gerome strips out of his clothes, leaving them a pooled heap on the floor. There’s no show of it just necessity. Even so, Inigo openly admires him, his soft stomach, the hair curling over his chest and wiry further down. He’s marble hewn, not in idealistic physique like a Greek sculpture but no less perfect.

                Nearly dragged bodily across the mattress, Inigo’s hair is a fluffy mess from how his shirt has been tugged off, along with his pants. Eyes crinkling at the corners, Gerome’s knees bracket his frame like he knows where his thoughts follow to their natural course. Not tonight. What he didn’t get to savor then he would now, kisses against his neck, shoulders, the center of his chest. Gerome seems content to mouth a wet patch before pulling, tonguing at the diamond slit of skin at the front of his briefs. Inigo yanks sharply on the crown of his head, hair fisted in his hand and that groan reverberates through his entire body.

                “Inigo.” From this angle he almost looks cross yet his glazed eyes betray him. “Be more gentle.”

                He’s so cute. “Yes sir.”

                Bracing on an elbow, Gerome hums, then does it again while maintaining eye contact. More. He presses kisses high on his inner thigh, hard enough to leave marks.

                With a single gesture, Inigo rolls over and pillows his head on his arms, lifting his hips to bare skin, elastic rolling down painfully slow. Peppered against his back like this are kisses so gentle he really does feel precious. And exposed. He could overheat at how thoroughly he’s laving his tongue against him. Luxuriates in that, in prodding open mouthed kisses leaving him aching. His own breath stutters. He tries to push back, demand more but as much as Gerome is appreciative for how gorgeous he is, he’s swatted once for his troubles. Appreciative, but nipping at his tender skin before he curls up his side. When he gets close, Inigo tilts his face away. At that, Gerome jerks back, mouth grazing his shoulder in the ghost of a pout as he gets up to the bathroom.

                “Don’t push your luck.”

                “Fine, is that what I am— lucky?”

                Inigo freezes mid-nod, recoiling at the still wet puddle of drool he’s left on the comforter. “O-Of course.” His reply, however, is lost in the sound of running water.

                But there’s no surreptitious way around hiding the mark and so he busies himself with folding down the blanket to sheets that still give off the scent of fabric softener. Work done, he drapes himself as artfully as he can over the bed, lounging like a sunbather. Keep it casual.

                “Hey.” He perks up at his return, waving. “You’ve a gift for me?”

                “Maybe, if you’re good.” After a scrutinizing glance at Inigo, the new state of the bed and his jacket, more neatly folded in its place, Gerome offers him a lopsided smile, dropping both the foil packet and lube next to him. It plucks the awaiting sir from him before he can give it voice, how he crowds into his space in the best of ways. Well. He’s feeling rather obedient.

                And Inigo pecks him gently on the lips, sweeter than he means to, lingering for something more that Gerome gives him easily, in touches, in his own sounds of pleasure. Takes and taking it. The snick of a bottle generates such a Pavlovian response. He shivers. Gerome will be good to him. How he could swallow down those words but they’re still there, permanently weakened to everything about him. His face goes hot— how intently Gerome watches his eyes widen, the hitch of breath— unfocused to anything but the pressure of his fingers. Gerome could be murmuring in a dead language for all Inigo knows for its’ meaning to be as equally comforting as it is dirty. “Relax for me baby.” He does, he tries. Gerome purrs over his qualms, susurrations that abate as the words slip over his skin.

                Overwhelmed, Inigo covers his face, trying to inhale one breathy moan as another digit meets the first. When his fingers curl just so, then to the knuckle, he jolts, unwilling to beg. Inigo pulls away his hand, teeth marks at the base of his palm. Please. His throat catches on the word, but his body conveys the rest, back arching off the bed to chase the motions.

                “Gerome.” Inigo does not whine, suddenly bereft, only for him. “Stop teasing me.”

                “All night, you’ve been a tease.” He huffs, the foil tearing. “I wanted you the moment I saw you...”

                As possessive as it is guiding, with a feather light touch at his hip Gerome pushes inside him, the air from their lungs punched out in tandem. Whatever constitutes teasing Gerome leaves abandoned, swiveling his hips just to hear him, almost petting each knob of his spine, at odds with the pace he’s set. Still when he seeks relief Gerome bats his hand away, intertwining their fingers. Mine.

                Frustrated, Inigo arcs at an angle so curved Gerome skims the muscles as they flex under his touch. “You’re such a slut, any stranger would do for you.” His other hand pins him down, forearm settled between his knit shoulder blades with a weight that consumes him. Inigo only manages to nod hazily, the bedframe shuddering beneath them as he relishes every stroke.  

                Yet the truth of it is no one should or even could have him like this. Maybe it’s what Inigo loves most, center of attention in a way he can’t be ashamed.  Vulnerability without a word. His toes curl. “Please.” Come in your slut. For all that he could offer in one word alone, a heady fantasy, let gravity alone steal away what belonged to him yet Gerome removes all coherence from him after that, fingers wound and twisted in the sheets as he falls apart.

                He’s a mess of splayed limbs, craning his neck enough to sleepily watch as Gerome tosses the used condom into the wastebasket before returning to his side with a damp cloth, cleaning him up with a gentleness he’s accustomed. “Thank you.”

                Gerome makes a face. “What, don’t thank me, it’s weird.”

                It’s all bluster without its sting, settling beside him. Inigo walks two fingers idly up his arm, cupping the back of his neck, Gerome’s eyes half-mast at the gesture. “But you know how I get, thanks for humoring me tonight, love.”

                Gerome’s face distorts to almost cartoonish surprise. “So I do get my husband back, I thought you’d banish me to the couch? For the full effect.”

                “After that performance…” he makes a derisive noise through his nose, “Maybe I should be the one to go, for the full effect.”

                They stare at each other in a half-assed contest before Gerome breaks the silence. “I’m not moving.”

                “Neither am I.”

                “Good because my feet get cold without you.” Gerome rolls over and proceeds to emit the fakest snores Inigo has ever heard. Really, it’s horrible.

                “Wow, Broadway is sending their best agents to snap you up as we speak.”

**Author's Note:**

> Between having the choice, I can't not write them married or dancing, apparently. And Aunt Severa totally baby-sat Soleil for a night. Because she's the best, just like my beta reader. Thanks for reading, kudos/comments always appreciated!


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